Just Another Casualty
by Bad Ronald
Summary: Someone tries his damnedest to survive the horrors of Raccoon City. He's not a civilian, nor is he an R.P.D. police officer. And NO, he's NOT another snot-nosed original character high school kid either, so you can rest easy on that...


**Author's Note:** I know, I know. Why repost this completely, instead of replacing the old stuff with the new? Well, for one thing, the rewrite honestly feels like a completely different story, especially compared to the old version. This started when, years later, I looked up this fic and read it, horrified at how... amateurish it all sounded. I resolved to fix this mistake, and this came about.

**Old Notes:** The first concept of this story was an R.P.D. cop trying to escape the T-Virus Breakout in Raccoon City... But that plan was shot down to hell when Brian Marcelo posted his story "One Last Stand" up before I could get it done. I read "One Last Stand", and I loved the story immensely (Thumbs up to you, Brian) and decided to sit back and read whatever he posted up. After a while, I wanted to post something myself that had the same concept Brian put in his story, that feeling of despair and hopelessness, that hunger for survival and victory... I wanted to make a story with the same concept, but a different way of perceiving it, a different way of wanting to survive with more originality. And therefore, I give you this story. I think you'll like the point of view that this was perceived in.

* * *

**Just Another Casualty  
**Jeremy Urbano Rosete (Bad Ronald)

In the city of the dead, you have to run to survive. If you stay where you are, you die. And if you run, you still die but at least you get to offset death a little longer. So I run down the murkish-green sewer corridor splattered with blood and peppered with bullets. My dead comrades flicker in and out of view, a flash of red light caught in gas mask lenses here, the drifting of their discarded limbs there… it's hard not to suck in a breath each time I sight these morbid little clues. Clutching my only lifeline, a standard military MP5 submachine gun, sweeping out the place with the spread of the gun-mounted flashlight, it's dark as hell and I'm only seeing things illuminated by the flashlight.

Suddenly, my flashlight catches a glimpse of something…

Red muscular legs climbing up the wall?

—and I lose it in the shadows, but I got a pretty good idea what it is.

One of those skinned men. The bigwigs in Umbrella, they called them Lickers. The lenses of my gas mask fog up when I start hearing this creepy clickety clack sound amplified in the hall.

_"Hhhhhuuuuuaaaaaaagggghh..."_

The tapping of its talons and the intensity of its hiss are probably enough to unnerve most men, but it doesn't unnerve me at all. The survivor for fourteen missions, you're looking at him and I'm going to survive this one. I'm not going to die like this. It's not right to die like this, it's a damn embarrassment.

So I wait and let the flashlight play and skip around the corridor.

There's this hideous sound, a throaty, rattling, _**"HHHHAAAAUUUGGGGHH!!"**_

I tense my muscles and bring up my gun closer to level. My training takes over: Three seconds to visual, one second to interception.

Fire.

Bringing up the gun instinctively, pulling the trigger at point blank range, I was still seeing it even after it was done. A red skinned man-like _thing_ with an exposed brain and sharp teeth and whipping tongue jumping at me face first as I'm pulling the trigger, the thing's brain blowing apart, splattering my goggles, flying, hitting the wall, wailing-

Enough. I stop thinking about it and focus on slowly taking in breath. This nagging feeling, it keeps telling me I'm going to die. I ignore it, I'm panicking, and I've got to calm down. Calming down's good, won't dig me a grave six feet under…

And my brain, the traitor, nags at me once more, it says Mr. Death will live and I'm going to die. I don't dare to answer it back, not even mentally. Just some hallucination. Stress of the moment. And while Mr. Death— no, Agent HUNK has a reputation for getting out alive when others have died, it's not going to last for long. Because I won't die. I'm going to survive too, and I'll look at HUNK on the other side of the chopper. I'm going to make it.

"I will survive... God, I just wanna survive..."

Anyone can hear my muttering with the gas mask strapped around my face filtering my voice making it sound cold and mechanic. It's loud.

Ah, the guys… McKenzie, Yubari. My teammates. They all died, and I've got the virus safely tucked with me. Looking down at my right vest pocket imagining the frail little deadly G-Virus in a test tube, curling up to the heat of my body, it's hard not to shudder. We're trained never to question our motives, but it never stopped me from thinking, "What the hell am I doing this for? Who am I doing this for?" And dear God, why the hell did Evans shoot Birkin?

That idiot rookie.

And what the hell was that thing? That thing.

I suck in a breath when the realization comes.

Birkin.

Jesus, it could only make sense, right?

* * *

_"You heartless bastards… you… you goddam leeches! You'll never take it away from me! My legacy! My life's work… NEVER!!" William Birkin shrieked, backing away, his eyes slitted with anger and madness. He actually seemed to be frothing at the mouth. His left hand clutched a pistol as his right held a briefcase close to his chest. He waved his gun around, screaming like a slavering cornered beast, aiming his pistol at me and Evans. _

_We only knew one thing: The G-Virus was in that briefcase, and we had to get it. Umbrella hired us, and we always finish the job._

_Holding my gun tight, I knew the scientist would shoot if he had to. Looking deep into his eyes, his whole face seemed haggard and worn, his throat was hitching with wretched gasps. His blond hair was tussled and dirty, the bags under his eyes showed that he needed more than two weeks of sleep, but his eyes blazed aware, showing fiercely that he would fight to the death to protect his "legacy."_

_He was crazy. Completely hogshit insane. The man was Section-Eight._

_His eyes looked haunted and maniacal at the same time, and we tensed because he was bound to attack at any moment. But he wouldn't. Not unless we rushed up to him. Not unless we provoked him. He wanted to survive that much, to have a second chance, honestly believing that maybe life could be steered to his demands if he wished hard enough. He was as dangerous as a wounded lion... the wounded ones were always dangerous. We had to keep him calm, had to keep the silence._

_And that was when it all went down to hell._

_**CLANG!**_

_And I think, "Aw, COME ON!"_

_Time didn't chip in to slow to a crawl when Birkin accidentally knocked over a test canister, either. It was just, Birkin waving his gun, then the canister's all of a sudden on the floor and then the rookie, Evans, next to me opened fire shooting at the doctor for doing nothing except knocking over the goddam thing._

_My mind screamed at me to shoot the rookie down, but I grabbed Evan's gun instead, wincing at the feel of the steaming barrel as I shoved it away._

_"Down, man," I said. _

_Who let this mooch work with us? He was too new to the job. Stupid greenhorn. I had a dire feeling that if it was Agent HUNK in my position, the rookie'd be dead already. We turned to Birkin crumpled up against the corner of the wall, a sad sight. He was huddled up, bleeding profusely from the multiple gunshots to his chest and stomach._

_This wasn't supposed to happen._

_Never mind. It's the job that matters. Not some wasted doctor._

_I had to do my job and get that vial. After all, Umbrella trusted us. Umbrella hired us. We're the USS, the Umbrella Security Service sector, and we always finish the job._

_I nodded briskly to the rookie, who promptly ran up to Birkin, snatching away the briefcase. He cracked it open, taking out the G-Virus vial and, squirreling it away, snapped the case closed. We were required to bring the briefcase too, it was full of the samples of the T-Virus. The rookie got up to his feet and came to my side and we both left. As soon as we get out of that section of the lab, we heard an ear- piercing scream._

_Birkin's scream. _

_The thought came clearly to me and made me shudder with raw fear._

_He injected himself with the virus. _

_They briefed us on this, but we forgot Birkin always kept a sample of the G-Virus close to him in his coat pocket. _

_We had just made the biggest mistake of our lives._

* * *

Before I snap back to reality, I'm haunted by this ghastly moaning sound: **"Uuurrrrrrgggghhh..."**

Hearing this and feeling hands grab fiercely at my shoulder, I snarl, surprising even myself from the savagery of it, "No, bastard!"

I thrust my elbow backwards to knock the deadite off me, and I dart in for face-to-face combat, hauling the butt of my MP5 against the rotting face of the deadite. I watch as the deadite falls like a sack of bricks.

Deadites. Ever since I compared them to the undead maniacs in the Evil Dead movies, I couldn't stop thinking of them as such. Bad thing is, there might be more. I alternate between jogging and walking first, and then I break out at a full-sprint run. We're supposed to meet at the helipad on top of the RPD police station and I _will _meet Hunk there and he _will_ be surprised out of his creepy face that he's not the only one left.

That he wasn't the only one that survived this hellhole.

I'm getting out of here. I'm going to survive.

Shortly after I start hearing a couple of dull thuds, I know exactly what it is. I aim the gun up at the ceiling and I have to choke my bile back in revulsion. Gross. There it is. A big spider, the size of a huge dog, crawling on top of the sewer ceiling and waiting to get a bite of me.

Not today.

I pull the trigger and ten automatic rounds make their way into the spider's pulpy bulbous body. Green blood smears onto the wall and the ceiling it's hunching against. The spider quivers once, its great bulk quaking idiotically, then it falls gracelessly and splashes into the sewer water. I had overcome arachnophobia just a few years ago, but now all that work's for naught. My fear of spiders rushes back with roaring triumph.

I even hate the little spiders, the real ones, their little bristling bodies, and their quick scurrying little legs— it's bad enough I'm easily creeped out by daddy longlegs, I have to be worried about meeting these big spiders in the sewers, too.

The spider lets out a long sorrowful wail. I bring up my rifle to my hip and fire at the bloated, hairy midsection, blowing its putrid waste all over the halls. Then I take a shot at one of its big, black, swiveling beady eyes.

With a pop, green blood spurts out, oozing out of the wound.

Making my way ahead and quickly jumping over the spider, ignoring the goosebumps puckering my skin, I'm trying not to look at the disgusting thing so I won't spew my lunch in my mask.

After a few minutes of running and deadite killing, I notice there's a path of light past all the moaning. Running up there, I count two, three deadites having some chow on a USS soldier's expense. They fall back, mowed down by the bullets of my MP5, most of them tumbling down with a spray of red, I walk up to the half-devoured USS soldier and, after verifying who it is, I shake my head sadly.

It was Bachman. We got along just fine. _Had_ gotten along just fine, that was. Bachman had potential. Now it's squandered, wasted, lying in a puddle of black blood.

A tired sigh pushes its way between my lips, curling against the filter of my gas mask. My paycheck better be worth it, because I've just decided this'll be my retirement mission. After this, it's a nice sturdy home and a clumsy love life, smooth sailing thanks to good pay.

I'm tired, I think. My legs feel slouchy and loose from running so much. Jesus, I am so tired. I'd like to take a nap, just a short one. I want to get out of this hellhole but I can't do that while I'm sl—

_**"RRRHAAAWWWWWRRRR!!"**_

"_**SHHEERRRRRRRAAAhhhHHHEEE!!"**_

I sink to my knees, horrified at the rubbery texture they've just gained. It's funny, I always thought 'rubber knees' as just a saying, but I'm actually pretty surprised to see it's true. That's great, now I can't move. Fear's got me by the balls, cold. I can't do much but turn around. And I can't much but see him. Or It. Birkin.

It looks like Birkin— still has his face, his body. But his left arm. It's screwed up—

It's got very sharp claws at the end. I crane my neck higher, noting that his shoulder-muscle just above his bicep is actually a huge, swiveling eye, packed chock-full of veins. Looking up even higher, I can see his shoulder isn't there. It's a huge mountainous thing that looks like it's growing a head.

It rears back, puffs out its huge sinewy barrel chest, and bellows up at the dripping ceiling,_** "SSSSHHHEEERRRRAAAHHEEEEEE!!"**_

I'll be damned, but I think I know what it's roaring: "Sherry."

Birkin's daughter? Little Sherry Birkin? Why would it be looking for his daughter?

She's probably dead already, in this deadite-infested town.

Then in horror, I realize that the Birkin-monster is coming towards me. I turn to run and hear the wet meaty slaps of huge feet meeting pavement behind me.

I wonder, my God, why does it want me? Does it want to kill me? I don't want to die. I want to meet Agent HUNK, look him in the eyes, and say he's not the only one alive.

Damn you, Birkin. Damn you for doing this to me.

I turn while running, a deadly mistake that costs me. The gun bucks in my hands as I hold down the trigger. I never hear the bullets popping out of my gun, nor do I feel the impact.

This entire need to survive, to meet up with Agent HUNK, to spit at his Mr. Death bullshit, to tell him he wasn't the only survivor here, it's all I want to do. The front of my boot hits something— the wayward limb of a dead USS soldier's body— and I stumble.

All this time, I'm thinking, _"No."_

For Christ's sakes, **NO.**

But you have to see. So turn, and see. Oh, you poor stupid son of a bitch. You tripped like a purebred moron, you stupid sorry dead son of a bitch. See your demise. The monster rushes up to me, the big swiveling pupil on its left arm glaring at me with the emotionless face of Birkin staring blankly.

It's not fair.

Not fair.

"NOOOO!" I rasp out one final shriek and pull down the trigger, struggling to shoot it in the face. Wherever its face is. It leers down at me, rearing back its left arm and it swings the thing down to my stomach. Pain shoots like a spark down an electrical conduit, blasting and searing through my frazzled nerves. It lazily jerks back its claw, spilling my life-blood everywhere.

Looking down, I see that my uniform's sprayed with crimson, blue and red snakes of intestine, uncoiled, are splaying out of my wound. I'm not gone, but the pain is. Strangest thing is, it doesn't hurt. So how about that. How do you like them apples. It really doesn't hurt. But oh, Christ. That feeling, the feeling of having nothing in my gut— where is my stomach? Where is it? There's this… this gross looking mess where it used to be. Aw, look at that, I'm pissing in my pants, crying and sobbing like a baby.

—Ow. I felt that.

The pain comes now. It starts to hurt, just a small tingling, needling sensation scorching and blazing outwards to full-blown white hot agony. It hurts so bad that this is the entire comprehensible nexus of pain, my thoughts bleed out in a gibbering frenzy:

"_Hurts...it...hurtsithurtsithurtsdammithurtshurtsithurtsshitfuck__**IT HURTS!!"**__  
_

Now I'm watching this from a distance.

The monster does me completely in, staining its talons with my blood, and now I don't feel anything. It honestly feels like this is happening to someone else. Fly on the wall, that's me.

The Birkin monster flings my useless body to the side, grumbling and proceeding on its way. Someone on my team, in USS gear jogs up to my lifeless body. His movements are stealthy and calculated… with that sinister looking gas mask on his face, he looks like a real backstabber. He's methodical, brisk and professional even in these surroundings, careful not to get the monster's attention. His crimson eyepieces locked on the monster's disappearing location, he rifles through my pockets, and plucks out the virus.

Who are you, thief? Who are you, you camping asshole?

Can it be?

No, it can't. It can't be him!

But it is.

Agent… fucking… HUNK.

Mr. Death.

Wait, I can't think— I feel strangely delusional…

Losing my life for a virus. Wanted to meet HUNK.

_For telling him... Wanted to tell him. _

He… Wa- wasn't the only survivor.

_T-That I survived too._

Can't be… casualty.

_Just... a… casualty._

Just. Another. Casualty.

**FIN  
**


End file.
